Blue Dragon 2
Blue Dragon 2 is an encounter in Civil War. Enemies * Royal Cavalryman (100 Plat, 100 XP, 100 Energy, 3 HP) * Royal Cavalry Mage (120 Plat, 120 XP, 120 Energy, 3 HP) Transcript Introduction "You're slinger?" the orc asked. He beamed across the juddering cart, his ugly features friendly and ferocious. Big slabs of muscle rippled under his rough brown jerkin. "I..." the boy began. "He's holding a sling. What else would he be? A bard?" The speaker sat next to the burly greenskin, her slim body neat and compact, perched cross-legged while the orc's limbs sprawled like hunks of discolored meat. Even the cloak she wore over dark leathers clung close to her frame and only enhanced her slenderness. She looked young, not much older than Nevis. But there was a slight pointiness to the ears protruding through her long auburn hair that bespoke non-human blood. She glanced down at the sling in his hands, and he couldn't help fidgeting. Heat rose to his cheeks as though he'd been caught playing with a doll or clutching a blanket from his infant crib. "That's a shame." A furry grey face turned to observe him, pupils expanding from slits to ebon pools so large he imaged himself plunging into twin abysses. "If he was a bard he could sing for us, and make this journey fun." Nevis felt his gaze dropping out of instinct, pulling away from those big black eyes and focusing on the soft pinkness of her nose. His blush deepened when he realized what he was doing. "Don't stare into an animal's eyes. They get angry." His mother's words drifted through a decade. He'd squatted down beside the innkeeper's cat that day, captivated by the creature's furry cuteness and creamy green orbs. Minutes later he was running home, tears streaming down his cheeks, red lines lashed across his forehead -- raising long bumps that made his brow look furrowed. Nevis met the felpuur's gaze. Her lips twitched, curving into a faint smile as if mocking his absurdity. "I'm Ryli." "Nevis." "Nevisss." His name was strange and exotic on her lips, like a gorgon's hissing snakes. "Are you a mage?" He glanced down at her robes. It was a patchwork garment, a collection of ill-matching colors, patterns, and fabrics sewn together into a whole that somehow seemed wistful instead of ugly or garish. And although the material appeared chosen at random, snatched without rhyme or reason, the stitching was neat and careful. A labor of skill or even love. "Cleric." "Of Karuss?" he asked. Hetti prayed to the Lord of Light, and Nevis knew his clerics were sought after to heal wounded warriors. "Karuss' priestesses don't dress in rags," the half-elf said. "She looks more like one of Brough's jesters." Ryli glanced at her and emitted a soft, low hiss. But it gave way to another smile as she turned back to him. "I worship Yydian, god of lost and abandoned things." "She's a scavenger. The battlefields are full of things people leave behind. She'll be like a child at the winter festival." "Maybe I'll find your lost manners, dear." The half-elf looked at Nevis. "Have you killed anyone before?" she asked. "No!" He spat the word out a split-second before he could bite it back. He'd taken the question as an accusation, a guardsman questioning a suspect. But that was something from his old life. Back in the village. Before the war. "Wonderful. Another peasant who hasn't even spilled blood." Her features were angular, slightly pointy to match her ears. She was more handsome than pretty. But the aloofness granted her a cold beauty that tingled like shards of ice deep inside him. "First-timers always cry and vomit. Don't get it on my boots." "How many have you killed then?" He regretted this an instant later too. His voice reminded him of a petulant child's. "Three. Each with a single thrust of a dagger." "Don't mind Yaealina," Ryli said. "She's been bragging ever since we picked her up in Simolk." The orc laughed. "Chumgrak has killed..." He held up a green fist. His five fingers uncurled from it one by one, and he watched them emerge in the manner of an alchemist observing the results of an intricate experiment. When this was done he paused, raised his other hand, and added its index finger to the tally. "Seven! Chumgrak is good warrior!" His mouth widened in a horrific smile. Nevis could well believe he'd slain seven enemies. And from the scraps wedged in his teeth, filling the gaps like cement between the bricks of a house, perhaps he'd eaten them too. Yaealina glared at the greenskin. But Nevis found himself matching Chumgrak's gormless grin. "What made you enlist?" Ryli asked. Nevis felt his face freeze, the beaming expression hardening into a mask. He glanced at the felpuur, the orc, the half-elf, and the people at the other end of the cart -- who stared at their boots or examined their blades in lieu of joining the conversation. How could he sit among these volunteers, these brave men and women, and say he was a conscript? He looked around, but Theadric was far out of earshot, cutting a handsome and heroic figure atop his horse. A mounted warrior's statue come to life. "Roderick," he said at last. "Because of Roderick." "Roderick!" Chumgrak pumped a big fist in the air. Others echoed it, some speaking for the first time since Nevis had joined them. "He lies on the altar, and his blood dyed the dust," the orc sang, his voice rough but hearty. The others joined in, forming a chorus, singing the battle hymn that had drifted over the kingdom these past weeks and been roared in pub after pub. The nearest horsemen took it up too. "Wretched coward soldiers with their murdering swords did thrust, Though he has passed he did a goal to us entrust, He's calling us to war." Nevis added his voice and relaxed as the song rang out through the cool country air. *** "The truest hero since the Dragon-Rider's time, To him in bluest heaven may our mournful praises climb, Soldiers call him rogue but we know whose is the crime, On them we all wage war." The song was a whisper on the wind, each word hard as a gemstone but as melodious as the light glistening on its facets. Hugh only heard the mournful melody when he drew near. It flitted between the raucous noises that filled the world behind -- where their allies celebrated their victory and pillaged the wagons -- a fragile little thing which another man might have found incongruous from the mighty, towering oroc. But the Titaran knew her better than that. Rakshara had her back turned. She stared off into the distance, where trees bristled on the horizon. "Good song, that," he said. "He was a good man. A true warrior. So were the others..." "I know. Bloody fine blokes and lasses, all of them." "Edwin threw me when we wrestled. He was strong as an oroc. We were going to wrestle again, after the armory." She sighed. A crisp, harsh crackle escaped with her breath. "We still will. When we all meet again, in the crystal kingdom." Rakshara turned to him, a soft, sad smile on her orange lips. Hugh couldn't bring himself to match it. He reached up and pulled her down towards him instead, fingers interspersed between the smooth rows of crystalline hair. Her tongue was rough and mineralized. It scratched and tickled his, but couldn't scrape away the word that had faltered there, buried beneath their kiss. Hell. Conclusion "You let one woman use you as a steed," Paxon Greengaze said, "then suddenly-" "Shut up and charge," Aya said. The shape-shifted gnome grunted. An emerald glow bloomed in his eyes and flared around his ursine body, lapping at the boots of the woman who stood on his back. But he broke into a run. His lumbering frame hurtled across the grass -- towards the galloping cavalrymen. The Kamamura ninja didn't even shift or flinch. Her feet stayed planted, wiry muscles relaxed but ready. Other horses pounded beside them on the right. Thundering hooves shook the ground and churned it to mud, scarring the earth with the battle's first wounds. Zeilend's harriers waved their swords and shouted a medley of mismatched oaths. The royal horsemen outnumbered them. These were no mere conscripts, for they came in fine array, a wave of gold and purple, mail and blades and horseflesh. Each warrior's lance was level -- a perfect line of gleaming points. But a woman who'd charged the gates of hell could never fear any foe. Her eyes already wore triumph as Richard bore her to the fray. "There!" Aya said. She twisted the toe of her boot against his thick hide to guide him. He saw the spot and made for it, straight into the earth-shuddering din. The horses only slowed for the barest instant. Centuries of instinct, woven into their brains and thews, urged them to turn aside and flee before the bear. But they heeded their masters' reins and heels instead. They came on, charging and champing, driving sharp steel towards the gnome and the ninja. Aya jumped. The masked woman launched herself high in the air as though gravity were an inconvenience beneath her notice. A cavalryman's lance arced up to follow her flight -- but it was too low and too slow. The ninja touched down in front of him, opened his throat, and leapt away before the horse could do more than twitch under the added weight. Paxon Greengaze sprang at the neighboring horsewoman. A bear's powerful paw, guided by a gnome's cunning mind, batted the lance aside. Another battered her skull. They collapsed in a heap, the horse kicking and thrashing in vain. Its body was no match for the ursine mass. Bone fractured and splintered. The druid clamped his jaws around its neck to end its suffering, and wondered if the beasts of the field and forest would ever be free from war's bloody yoke. Category:Civil War